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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29772903">almost</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern'>CravenWyvern</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>DS Extras [116]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Don't Starve (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>...semi-happy ending though..., ...very quickly and strongly - mind the tags, Escaped the Constant AU, Implied Past Maxwell/Charlie, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Character Death, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Vent writing that got out of hand</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:29:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29772903</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>Goes along the same timeline with <i>'There is an end to this'</i>, <i>'lack of'</i>, and <i>'Reflect on it'</i>.</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>DS Extras [116]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>almost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Goes along the same timeline with <i>'There is an end to this'</i>, <i>'lack of'</i>, and <i>'Reflect on it'</i>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><i>It'll work this time,</i> he thought, <i>it will really work.</i></p><p>But no. That wasn't what he thought, not at all.</p><p> </p><p>What he thought was <i>it's cold</i> and <i>the sun's shining today</i> and <i>glad it didn't rain last night, no mud out in the gardens</i>. What circled in his mind were the simplest of things, <i>this is a fairly well to do pine tree, I need to sew up this tear in my sleeve, how late is it now, did I leave the kettle on?</i></p><p>And then, slow, subtle - <i>it hurts.</i></p><p>Blurrily looking down, sluggish and cold and ever so exhausted, he idly took note of the pool of red soaking into the grass and dirt around him. His old suit, dusty still from months, near year's stuffed into the attic, was surely getting stained now; it made him huff, a short, airy sound that dragged the little air in his lungs, go rasping and fluttery.</p><p>
  <i>It hurts.</i>
</p><p>His hands twitched, leather gloves cracked and faded, untaken care of in so long, fingers curling even as blood drained down, soaked through. The trees thick roots, its solid trunk bracing his back, were poking into him at uncomfortable angles, but right now Maxwell didn't think he could get up.</p><p>Maybe, maybe he'd never get up again.</p><p>
  <i>It always hurts.</i>
</p><p>The early morning light was still there, the sun not quite at its high arcing climax just yet, and the frosty chill in the air compounded with the cold already permeating in his chest. It buzzed numbly to his arms, his legs, throbbing waves of static pins and needles, a tide washing upwards, filling through his frail, all too empty form.</p><p>The blade in the grass beside him glinted in the sunlight, slick with watery traces of blood.</p><p><i>His</i> blood, he knew. It made him wheeze, a whisper thin chuckle escaping him as Maxwell let his heavy eyelids fall closed.</p><p>
  <i>It will always hurt, every time.</i>
</p><p>For a little while, nothing but the faint breeze in the trees was heard. The forest had drawn in a silent breath this morning, when it had seen him leave the shack he had been calling home for months, <i>years</i> now. Bustling about, a last few checks over the garden, the makeshift orchid, the new sapling trees Woodie had only a few months ago planted for them; the forest had watched and waited, bated breath held, as he folded the razor up into his pocket, almost set a last notice to the door before instead choosing to rip up into tiny shreds, toss into the nearby unlit fire pit as possible future kindling.</p><p>The woods had watched, as he walked as far as he could will himself to go, listening to its silent whispers, the softer cracks and far distant echoes of the living deep within.</p><p>And then, the trees had watched, watched as he sat himself down under a massive elderly pine tree, slipped the razor out of his suit pocket, and began to cut into his own skin.</p><p>The forest had watched, sullen and quiet, as he bled himself dry within its comforting reaches. It was the closest he'd ever get to the Constant, Maxwell felt, and he sighed, a heavy, sluggish sway to it as he leaned his head back against the tree trunk.</p><p>His hands hadn't trembled once today. A new achievement; the shaking had been so bothersome, rising up these last few years.</p><p> </p><p>They won't be shaking anymore soon.</p><p><i>He</i> won't ever shake again, soon.</p><p>That...that felt nice, to think of.</p><p>
  <i>It...it doesn't hurt as much, anymore.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>His thoughts had felt slowed today, ever since waking up alone in a cold bed. For a moment, a mere moment, he was so sure Wilson had just gone to work - the kettle had already been warmed, after all, a few eggs missing, toast eaten, work clothes gone.</p><p>But then the doubts had come, thick and heavy and cloying, a fear rising horridly into his chest, flooding such things out, and Maxwell had shaken while in the home, shaken and trembled and shook, because <i>Wilson wasn't there.</i></p><p>Had he ever been there, Maxwell wondered? Had he ever really stayed in the first place?</p><p>The old man couldn't remember, couldn't wrap such thoughts together in his mind. All that had come to him was the silent low creaking of the house as it settled, the empty driveway and fresh tire marks, the sullen, melancholic quiet as he wandered aimlessly alone.</p><p>There would be dust soon, Maxwell knew. It would coat everything, and then the paint would dry and crack, the wood crumbling under both dry and wet rot, the roof would end up collapsing, burying everything else under rubble.</p><p>He didn't want that, not that. That...that death wasn't his.</p><p> </p><p>How did Wilson die, Maxwell had wondered, blank and dizzy and so deeply empty, tired, <i>exhausted</i>. How could he have forgotten?</p><p>But it didn't matter, not anymore. He was alone now, alone with the trees and woods and forest, and their leaves hummed and whispered above him as the breeze carried ever on. His blood seeped into the dirt, fed the pine roots, and Maxwell's face split into a wobbly smile for a moment, recognizing his own substance to the forest. </p><p>It wasn't the Constant, but the natural world would eat him all the same. Maybe it was better this way, this bleed out, this faint <i>pain.</i></p><p>
  <i>I am just so tired.</i>
</p><p>When he had first entertained this thought it was always with something vaguely ugly in mind - a spear in the gut, perhaps, or an ax lodged into the skull. Maybe a knife in the back, or rageful hands jerking his head and slamming him into the ground, again and again and again, nothing but blood smears and sundered bone and rotting flesh left.</p><p>Then that had shifted, softened into brought along rope, twisted knotted nooses, a heavy cold firearm, or a taken great fall down a cliff, broken bones and parched throat and <i>how much longer, how much longer do I have to wait?</i></p><p>Eventually, however, he settled with the easiest, tried true option. After all, his past has been rife with such encounters; his scarred wrist attested to that.</p><p>Bleeding took time, but not as much as it once had been. There was no Constant here.</p><p>Maxwell sighed, a soft, drained sound, shoulders falling, body relaxing, arms slightly spread, wrists turned upwards as the ground grew soppy in blood. His worn old suit, moth eaten and dull from the years, was staining bright crimson now. It used to be dark.</p><p>Pitch dark, like tar; fuel thickened in the blood, a boon from Them, from the Constant.</p><p>...he missed it, in his own way. Nightmares and dreams kept him awake at night, Wilson by his side, sometimes even waking enough to offer comfort, but they never did go away.</p><p> </p><p>Wilson wasn't here anymore though. The house had been empty, only Maxwell, aching old, all too tired out Maxwell, and he had taken the blade and hiked out from the house and had slit his wrist into worrying lines, oozing fresh bright blood into the morning air.</p><p>
  <i>Can I rest soon?</i>
</p><p>He's done this before, so many times. In the Constant, he had even taken the blade to his own throat. <i>'If only the world had a single neck',</i> he had joked to silent air, no response to his dark ironically humored words besides weary glances, sullen looks, and when he had finally sneaked away with the discarded blade the act had been swift and merciful.</p><p>He had withered, suffocated on his own vomited blood, violent death throes out in the mud like some common beast.</p><p>Wilson told him later he had found the body, the razor, the horrible, horrible traces of lifesblood. The man had a quiet look on his face, that usual neutral scowl turned different, more wrinkled lines than before, a darker cloud of fog in his eyes.</p><p>Maxwell had snapped at him, shrugged his shoulders with a less than irritated hiss, and got on with living yet another life that the Constant and They gave him. </p><p>Another ten or so lifetimes and he slit his throat once more. No one talked to him about it then.</p><p>Better that way, he knew. Always better that way.</p><p>
  <i>...Can I rest with Wilson?</i>
</p><p>The thought was rubbish, rude and conniving, but Maxwell couldn't do much but slump to the side against the tree's trunk, the trembling shivers gone, only numbness, emptiness left now.</p><p>He didn't really think he would ever get that, that heavenly ideal. </p><p>As if Wilson ever wanted him to begin with.</p><p>That hurt in its own way, knowing that so very well.</p><p><i>I'm almost done,</i> Maxwell thought, tired, in pain, so bloody exhausted. <i>I am almost done.</i></p><p>That was a nicer thought, to almost be done. Everything was almost all over with.</p><p>There was no Constant here, or anywhere. Nothing else but this, this one time, and that was all.</p><p>And he was almost finished.</p><p>So close, Maxwell drowsily realized, and, for a brief moment, he almost felt, felt…</p><p>...felt <i>happy.</i></p><p><i>Goodbye</i>, he thought, to no one in particular, <i>hope you enjoyed the show...</i> No one was here, after all, just him and his last spark of happiness left, but a less than grand finale was what he supposed he had long earned.</p><p>And that was okay. After all-</p><p>
  <i>It's almost all over.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>And then there was a call, loud and sharp, pitched high in sudden fright, and Maxwell drowsily blinked open his eyes in a sluggish, vision smearing sweep.</p><p>And the man fallen into a kneel before him, panting as if from a run, had his face drawn tight in worry, concern, barely held panic, and his mouth was moving and stormy eyes blown wide in an awful mixture of emotions, feelings Maxwell would never even try to make an understanding of.</p><p> </p><p>It surprised him, in that slow, sluggishly tired way, and he blinked at Wilson as the man cupped his hollow face in his rough hands, a strained look in his eyes.</p><p>"-I was only gone for a few hours, Max, just for a little bit! What the hell happened!?"</p><p>The near yelled words trickled through his slowed mind, too slow to really start to find balanced ground, and Maxwell squinted at him as his partner went about shrugging off his own coat, winter jacket of some kind, a frantic, wide open expression taking over his usually so organized face.</p><p>Not even a spare glance taken to the razor before it was taken, and Maxwell almost thought - <i>'Yes, here, now, do it, end it pal, END IT-'</i> - but then Wilson was tearing at his own jackets sleeves with a panicked look in his eyes, breath going in fast, shallow, and the worry plastered on his face dug in sharp hooks to Maxwell chest as he blinked stupidly back.</p><p>It only sunk into his mind what was happening when his self inflicted wounds started to get wrapped, tight and firm and pressing, assuring. Then he tried to move, sluggish and weighted and so very, very <i>tired</i>, weak gloved fingers scraping across the firm focused hands of his partner, but Wilson easily, <i>gently</i> nudged them out of the way, face set as blood flow was stopped just enough for a few spotted bleed throughs. </p><p>"W...w-why….?"</p><p>"Because you'll <i>die</i>, Maxwell." Wilson's voice was serious, very serious, threaded with only a hint of shaking fears, yet the old man rolled a long suffering, painstakingly slow eye roll, sluggish and with hoarse, shallow gasps of breath. </p><p>Maxwell let his slowed gaze settle to his partner, no move made to help or aid Wilson in handling him, just limp and moldable and <i>exhausted.</i></p><p>If he had the energy, the words needed, he'd have said something along the lines of <i>"That was the point."</i></p><p>Alas, he could not. He just...couldn't.</p><p> </p><p>Wilson pressed his hands against his wrists, against those numbing scars, the more numbing open wounds, thick torn cloth already soaking in blood, wrapped tight and firm and so, so very discomforting. His face had lost that expression of borderline panic, had curdled into stoic focus, expressionless and heavy, and Maxwell's gaze wandered over him in a sluggish, slowed drift before letting his eyes close, shallow breath wheezing through him haphazardly.</p><p>"Y...you were...gone…"</p><p>"Just for a little while." Wilson's voice was just as solid, firm, eyes turned only to his arms, only to the wounds, his past mistakes, his choices of now. "I had to deliver some parts to someone a few miles from us. I thought I told you last night."</p><p>It was quiet, for a moment. Then-</p><p>"No...no, I...I thought…you were...gone…"</p><p>The other man paused at that, just a split second, but then his stormy eyes rose up and locked with the dull glaze of Maxwell's half lidded look. </p><p>"...I wasn't." A hand was suddenly grasping at his shoulder, a light squeeze to the thin bone there, warmth at the contact that would've made him shiver had he the energy to do so. "I wouldn't leave you, Maxwell."</p><p> </p><p>Maxwell let his eyes close again, feeling tired, weighed down - Wilson didn't understand. He never would.</p><p>That...that was okay. Understandable. At the end of the day, there was only one person who ever would, and she had such little fondness for him now…</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>"I tried, you know." Charlie stood there, one hand leaning on the porch, the other raising a cigar to puff on, hold the smoke in before letting it stream out in a dragon's breath exhale. "Took some inspiration from you, went at my wrist in the bathroom."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Maxwell stood off to the side, leaned back against the house's wall, own cigar swirling deep tobacco smoke into his own mouth, slipping through to his well scarred lungs, before letting it ease out of him in long dragging rivers of smog. He tilted his head to her, dull eyes lax and low, listening as the woman he had once so very much loved continued to speak.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Winona found me, just after she got off work. I thought I was doing it right, cutting up like that, but I guess bleedin' out just isn't my thing."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>...he did still love her, truly. He knew he always would.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Don't know if I'm gonna try again. Don't know if I want to." She took another drag from her cigar, a deep one as she rested her elbows to the porches fencing, overlooking the darkness of the forest out there beyond Higgsbury's little shack. "Talked to someone about it, but they didn't understand. Don't think anyone will."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Then she turned to him, bright eyes and soft face, only recently lined with the wrinkles of age catching up, still elegant, ethereal, <b>queenly.</b></i>
</p><p>
  <i>"What about you, Maxie? You gonna leave us anytime soon?"</i>
</p><p> </p><p>His moment of respite was shocked awake, scattered to pieces as hands nudged, grabbed and pulled at him, and Maxwell blurrily opened his eyes as Wilson started to tug him up into a stand.</p><p>"You think you can walk, Max?"</p><p>Said softly, still firm and focused but just ever so <i>softly</i>, a questioning concern, worry starting to be let trickled back in, and the old man almost entertained the sluggish idea of shrugging off those hands, pushing them away - he can get by on his own.</p><p>He had enough in him left to know <i>that.</i></p><p> </p><p>But then his legs trembled, weakness slithering its way in and overstaying its welcome, and with it came helpless shivers as he leaned heavy upon the other man's support.</p><p>For all his silent, closed eyed snarling, Wilson was quick on the uptake.</p><p>"...I take that as a no."</p><p>A part of him <i>wanted</i> to struggle, <i>wanted</i> to fight back, this was where his lifesblood has been spilled, by his own hand no less, this was where he had laid himself down, <i>this</i> was to be his grave, <i>his</i> finale, what <i>right</i> did anyone have taking him from here-</p><p>But then Wilson bundled him in close, crouched with a huffed grunt, and oh so easily swept him off his feet into a bridal carry.</p><p>The shock of it, dizzy and nauseous now, weakness taking over, made him loll his head limpy against the other man's shoulder, frazzled wild, pepper grayed hairs brushing against his face as he trembled and shook.</p><p>When Wilson started to walk, steady breaths and focused concentration, holding him close, Maxwell found that there just wasn't enough in him to fight back against it all. His partner was warm, stinking of exertion and left over panic, that all too well known smell of rough hands and wild living and comforting, all too comforting familiarity, and all he could do was tilt his head, close his eyes, and let himself be held like this.</p><p>Carried away with Wilson, he blurrily thought, fantasized, light and airy and something far Other than here and now. Maybe his heavenly ideal really was to come true.</p><p> </p><p>Then he was jolted back, drowsy thoughts swirling sluggishly in his mind, and Wilson shifted him again in his arms, voice huffed but not tired out just yet.</p><p>"Stay with me, Max. Keep awake." Another worming thread of worry, then - "When we get back to the house I'll call someone, so don't worry, okay? Everything is going to be fine. You'll...you'll see."</p><p>Full blown concern, Maxwell idly recognized, and good lord was he <i>tired</i>. Just so very <i>tired.</i></p><p>The trees, the woods smeared by in long slow painted flows, and he dizzily wondered why Wilson didn't just settle him down around here. He didn't have to hold Maxwell like this for long if he didn't want to, Maxwell wouldn't judge him for that. Just...settle, and rest.</p><p>
  <i>That's what we both want, isn't it? Rest…</i>
</p><p> </p><p>...Wilson's grip was firm, warm. Comforting. Maybe...maybe Maxwell didn't <i>really</i> want him to let go.</p><p>"I…" he rasped, shallow breaths shuddering into slow stuttered inhales, exhales, eyes closing and body relaxing limply in his partners arms, "...I love you, Wilson."</p><p>"...I know that, Max." The arms holding him bundled him closer, pace quickening, and Maxwell was starting to lull under that steady beating drum of the other man's heartbeat. "Just hang in there. I got you."</p><p>The forest was quiet, as Wilson continued on, quick, barely held panic in each step, holding his older partner close and tight to him.</p><p>"I got you, Maxwell. Stay with me."</p><p> </p><p>In a barely there whisper, strained and borderline sobbed, held in just enough, there was a very, very quiet, <i>"please</i>" murmured out above him in the chill air.</p><p>Maxwell didn't have enough left in him to answer, but his weak fingers twitched a light hold to Wilson's shirt, a shuddering breath easing through him as he inhaled that familiar, comforting scent of the man, and, for now, the older man sluggishly felt that leaden weight lighten up off his shoulders, just the slightest bit.</p><p> </p><p>The old scientist hurried on, aging former magician in his arms, and the forest finally loosened its held breath in a chilly, barely noticeable exhale of softened wind, a faint breeze drifting on by.</p>
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